a haiku

Father's Day

image by dsnake1



a haiku


missing dad -
sandpapering rust
off his old tool box.



20/06/2021
**********


the haiku is old but it is one of my favourites and i am posting it today.

---

I remember my dad as a stocky, muscular man, as he works in the construction industry as a carpenter and a foreman. I follow him for a couple of weeks working on a house for a wealthy pig farmer, and I know how tough the work can be. Yet his Chinese calligraphy is very elegant and beautiful, and bold. The people at the clan house would request him to write notices and wedding invitations.

He is a very quiet man, does not say much. When as a child, I got into scraps with other kids, he would just dress my wounds, and not ask anything. He is quite unfazed by anything, except when he once asked me what I was doing with a gang in Newton (I wasn't), and the news of Kennedy's assassination. He has passed on, at a relatively young age, and when I needed strength, I would think of him.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

the amulet

we need not walk alone.

photo by DavidZydd at pixabay


the amulet


she asks me, what's this thing around my neck.
it's an amulet, i say, it will protect me.
it protects me from spirits and snakes and small arms.

she works her fingers down my spine, expertly.

it's just a dirty dark metal thing, she says.
she knows all the pressure points on the body.
she kneads those knots, the pain rushes out like a cat.

an Irish saint is in there, don't be rude, i say.
but what's an Irish saint gotta do with you?
oh sweet, can you be generous and give that piece to me?

and then i go out there and stop a bullet tomorrow?

please? she works her fingers again, expertly.
she knows all the pleasure points on the body.
she kneads those knots, my hand reaches out to her waist.


21/05/2020
**********

---

Band-Maid - Choose Me

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

that you left me

❤

photo by 5933179 at pixabay



that you left me



i was afraid
time will erase
your memories

your smiles

and i am
getting old

so today
i will just
write

some words

i cannot
send you
a card
like before

or take your
hands in mine

and point to
the stars
in the sky

take this as
a poem

for you

and if you
have read it
you will smile

and would
have cried.



28.01.2008
**********

Still, one of my personal favourites...

---

Black Sabbath - She's Gone

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

i can see she is still pretty

Is this a love story? Or a breakup tale?

Last of the set I intended to send in for the Golden Point Awards 2015. Maybe it's better I missed the deadline?

image from pixabay





i can see she is still pretty


i have come back
to visit my lover
many years after i left.
it was a parting of necessity
i assured her
but she would not listen.
i didn't call you a bitch
certainly not,
maybe my language was inadequate
and we were young
and rebellious and hot headed
but certainly not a bitch.

but she would not listen
not the way one reads the words.
she had grown lovelier as she aged
fuller body
curves
scent of freshly cut flowers
ixoras in the sunshine.

then i told her i will leave
i will move on
i love her for what
i have learnt.
it may not be pretty
not always
but it certainly opens
my eyes.

and for the last time
i turn my back on her

walk her pavements
stub out my cigarettes
in her flower beds
linger at her bus stops
as i have lingered years before.



written 02.02.2007
revised 01.05.2015
******************



Years ago, I lived briefly in a neighbourhood in Jalan Bukit Merah. Vibrant, wild and dangerous at times, but also quite unlikely friendly, kind and compassionate. It was quite a ride and an eye-opening experience...

---

"Things do not change; we change."

-- Henry David Thoreau


And if you have lost your way : Gerry Rafferty - Baker Street

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

thank you for your love

if only we could just relive those moments...

photo by JessicaGale at morguefile.com



thank you for your love


it was andy lau on the hi-fi.
his mandarin was awful, i said.
he should stick to cantonese.
she was in the kitchen
slicing some mangos
deshelling some prawns
to go with the vodka
and blue curaco
that i have poured.
but the song's nice, she said.
beautiful love song.

and then we lit our cigarettes
ate our mangos and prawns
stood at our apartment window
lifted our glasses
of blue poison
to the golden sunset
that was spreading
into our house
and all the while
andy lau was on the hi-fi
singing about love.


23/12/2008
**********

---

"Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold"

-- Zelda Fitzgerald


She loved this song. I liked it too. We used to kill it on the karaoke :
谢谢你的爱 / Thank You for Your Love

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2017

if we can come this far

It was not to be, but what if? And Time is a tough herder...

photo by dsnake1




if we can come this far


if we can
come this far

will time
forgive us

grasp tightly
what's left

what tender moments
can we salvage

like a scratchy reel
of film

a scent
a word

hold in our hearts
no dementia

no demons
can pry free





written 10.01.2009
revised 13.08.2012
****************


Today is my birthday, & i am glad i can write about it.

---

“The marks humans leave are too often scars.”

― John Green, The Fault in Our Stars


Shared on Poetry Pantry #330 at Poets United.

---

Song of the moment : Lady of Dreams by Kitaro and Jon Anderson.

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

There must be wars being fought out there

This is a poem that was accepted and published in an online poetry magazine, The Sidewalk's End, a decade back. It was one of the first few poems I submitted for ezines. I am quite fond of this poem, maybe it speaks to me in a certain way.

photo by mzacha at morguefile.com



There must be wars being fought out there


After dinner, we sat on the verandah outside our bunks
smoking, soaking the breeze
watching the day going down over our camp.

The perimeter was just metres away
and through the chain-link fence, the rusted concertina
sometimes we see iguanas, monitors and wild dogs.

Today we saw the snipers on night exercise again
getting down from their unimogs
cradling their night gear & sniping rifles.

We waved at them, they sulked at us,
poor bastards, they are going to feed mosquitoes
and then they were gone, into the jungle, like ghosts.

My buddy leaned off the weathered planks
stretched his limbs like a yoga master
shouted fuck it! & lit another cigarette.

I wasn't sure what pissed him off
maybe the snipers, maybe the insects buzzing around us
or he was just thinking about his run-out date.

As if to offer moral support i said yeah fuck it
leaned back and took another cigarette from him
thinking it will be another humid night again.

The frogs and crickets are up and singing their songs
as the darkness descended over us
like a mailed fist.

I looked past the faint slice of moon
past the constellations, through the light years and
thought surely there must be wars being fought out there.


22.03.2006
**********

---

"What he meant, of course, was that there would always be wars, that they were as easy to stop as glaciers. I believe that, too.
And even if wars didn't keep coming like glaciers, there would still be plain old death.”

― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five


Shared on Poetry Pantry #328 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

old graffiti

This is from my 2009 NaPoWriMo archives.

When I was younger, I used to write down my thoughts on paper with a pencil, in bound journals and ring notebooks. Most were just rants and doggerel. Much was thrown away. Maybe I shouldn't have. There were some decent and very good poetry (i think), like those in the period just after my military service, that were lost when I moved from place to place. My heart still aches when I think about it. :(

photo by dsnake1




old graffiti




it was just
rows of
faded pencil marks
on a yellowed page

scratched in a naive hand
brash but unsure
small steps
like a baby's

searching
for words
for that
great poem

even the strokes
were angry
the mood
probably too

but the elusive
creatures,the words
stayed hidden
buried

and that was why
that poem
never met
the light

of day


09/04/2009
**********

---

“Sometimes things become possible if we want them bad enough.”

― T.S. Eliot


Shared on Poetry Pantry #314 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

every little thing

It is the little things that comes back to tug your heart...

photo by jdurham
image from morguefile.com




every little thing




the ache comes back sometimes
you thought the pain has passed
in the dark a sudden
flare of a match
as it lights a cigarette

it comes back on the train
during rush hour the click
of high heels on concrete
a pair of long legs
in a short skirt

it walks with me in malls
aimless through the muzak
mere squares of glass but for
a teddy bear smiling back
from a display window

back out in the streets
the weather mean and unforeseen
cold rain on my face
sudden, on a evening's day.
just like the night you left.


28/03/2014
**********

---

“I think it is all a matter of love; the more you love a memory the stronger and stranger it becomes”

-- Vladimir Nabokov


Shared on Poetry Pantry #286 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

mother (it's about not giving up)

I cannot forget the day I lost my mother. I was in the ambulance with her, holding her hand, and all I was feeling was just helplessness...





photo by arvydas
image from morguefile




mother (it's about not giving up)





mother,
there is pain
in your eyes
hold my hands
hold me tight

outside this
ambulance
in the
rain drenched
streets

the heartlands
the city
a world going
about
its living

which you are
leaving

the pathetic wail
of the sirens
drowned out
by the babel
of the evening

rush hour
the wipers groaning
on windscreens
tail-lights red
in the rain

make way you bastards
my mother is dying

i could not
look at her
lest she sees
the tears welling
the fear

in my eyes
my mother is dying
and yet all
i am thinking
are the numerals

stenciled on
the oxygen tank
and all the while
the night
is still raining,

the rain drops
splattering
scattering
on the windows
the air in the cabin

suddenly
very cold

and still
she was
holding on
fighting

while i
all weak
was about to
give up.


written 10.05.2013
revised 09.03.2014
******************

---

“You don't know who is important to you until you actually lose them.”

― Mahatma Gandhi

---

©cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2015

in a blog spot

Urban Poems is ... 10 years old. And that's a long time in the cyberworld.

And what was my first post?

in a Blog spot


excuse me.
totally lost.

feeling my way around.
damn!

---

no wonder there were no comments. :)

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2015

a fragment from the past

It has been very insane past weeks in the office, and bad days make me angry and quiet and think of the past, and write poetry (after the video games).

I took out a poem-in-progress, did a big overhaul over the weekend. I guess it can still be better, but here it is.

image by dsnake1, done with pencilmadness



a fragment from the past






do you have the feeling
that you have
been there
before?
déjà vu, some called it
but it's not really whole,
some bits here
a little nuance
a little piece of jigsaw

a voice,
a peal of laughter
in the bus,
the shape of a nose
a dress,
a pair of legs in a short skirt


as if
a fragment from the past
had escaped
the confines of time
punched through
a torn fabric
a membrane
a tangent from
a spiral of the marching clock

sometimes
i look hard
trying to see clearer
to comprehend

if she's
really back

and the person
across from me
is embarrassed
frightened
she thinks i am mad
or worse
a pervert

and then

i

am


lonely again
in a city
storming headlong
uncaring
towards
its destiny



written 18/05/2013
revised 13/12/2013
******************

---

"i thought i hear your voice in the wind
but it was just me whispering your name."

-- dsnake1, i thought i hear your voice in the wind


Shared on Poetry Pantry #180 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

our old home

When I was a child, I lived in a squatter colony in a hut my father and grandfather built. Life was hard but us village kids always had time for some fun exploring the forests, beaches and quays around the area. The highlight of the weekend was to sneak into the British army camp to catch their movies. It was definitely a simpler time.

Paul Klee's House on the Water
image from wikipaintings




our old home




looking out of the taxi from the viaducts
of the expressway

i saw the lights in the huge yards bathing the port
like day

the containers stacked as neatly as colourful
lego bricks

the cranes over them like metal brachiosauruses
breathing steam



once upon a time my cousin and i
catch catfishes

where the giant ships at the wharves
now berthed

not caring about the stings
or drowning



today as the last evening lights
scattered off

offices and warehouses ringed by a
chain-link fence

casting shadows and memories on a
concrete strip

there used to stand a house where I
called home.


15/11/2013
**********

---

“How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.”

― William Faulkner


Shared on Poetry Pantry #177 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

Toolshed

When I was younger, while waiting for military service, I followed my father around in his work in the construction industry. This poem is about the few weeks I was working with him.

This poem has appeared in the Jan 2006 issue of QLRS, an on-line literary journal of Singapore. I am re-posting it here for Poets' Rally Week 49.

photo by DuBoix

image from morguefile.com



Toolshed
Construction site, Punggol fields, 1972



It is my job
to fill that soot-blackened kettle
with water,
throw in a handful of tea leaves,
put it over a fire of disused wood
and watch it boil
in the early light blues of Punggol.

My father is in that toolshed
poring over blueprints
of a farm,
briefing his foreman,
as dust and insects floated
in the harsh light
of fluorescent lamps.

Soon my father will amble over,
pour himself a drink from that kettle
into a grimy metal cup.
I will offer him a cigarette
and we will squat there by the wayside
smoking, the sweet wisps of Camels
swirling in the cool morning air.

Then we will go over to the toolshed,
collect our claw hammers, plumb lines,
nails, tape measures,
light up some joss to the earth god,
as Blackie, the mongrel guarding the shed,
darker than Cerebus from Hell,
comes over sniffing our heels.

We haul planks, measure, hammer,
in the uncompromising sun,
sometimes seeking solace
in the shadows of the wooden moulds
jutting out of mud and rock like pruned tree trunks.
The smell of sawn wood clings to us
like a stigma.

When the day is done,
the sun painting streaks of gold and crimson
on the clouds, we dust
ourselves of sawdust and wood shavings,
feed the dog,
and gather at the toolshed,
lingering, for a final smoke in the fading sun,


as did our forebears before us
in America, in Hong Kong
building railroads, harbours,
hunched over camp fires,
drinking tea from grimy cups
swopping stories about home
in Canton half a life away.

Then we pile into
our cars and bikes
for the weary journey home.
The stars are coming out
in that vast bowl of sky,
the cirrus clouds rolling
dark angry strips of floss

in the darkening light
over a plain of wild grass
                over

the exact centre of our universe..


20.10.2005
**********

六 月 初 三







© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

there must be wars being fought out there

This poem was written and accepted for publication in an on-line poetry magazine, The Sidewalk's End, a few years back. It was about the experiences I had when I was in the army.

I am posting this for Poetry Potluck Week 43 at Jingle Poetry. Be warned, there are a couple of expletives in the poem. :)

photo by mzacha

image from morguefile.com



There must be wars being fought out there


After dinner, we sat on the verandah outside our bunks
smoking, soaking the breeze
watching the day going down over our camp.

The perimeter was just metres away
and through the chain-link fence, the rusted concertina
sometimes we see iguanas, monitors and wild dogs.

Today we saw the snipers on night exercise again
getting down from their unimogs
cradling their night gear & sniping rifles.

We waved at them, they sulked at us,
poor bastards, they are going to feed mosquitoes
and then they were gone, into the jungle, like ghosts.

My buddy leaned off the weathered planks
stretched his limbs like a yoga master
shouted fuck it! & lit another cigarette.

I wasn't sure what pissed him off
maybe the snipers, maybe the insects buzzing around us
or he was just thinking about his run-out date.

As if to offer moral support i said yeah fuck it
leaned back and took another cigarette from him
thinking it will be another humid night again.

The frogs and crickets are up and singing their songs
as the darkness descended over us
like a mailed fist.

I looked past the faint slice of moon
past the constellations, through the light years and
thought surely there must be wars being fought out there.


22.03.06
**********









© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

Illusion

It has been a busy week at the office again, and I am feeling exhausted, but I think the muse came back for a visit, because I am able to come up with this poem in a matter of minutes. Plus, squeeze in a sketch.

This piece is not about mistaken identity. It's about recognising traits or features of a person you know well which you find in a total stranger. Sometimes, the memories comes back in a flood...


image by dsnake1


Illusion


is it really her
that is sitting across me
in the bus, those eyes
that nose, and lips and
slim body but

damn it!

you know
she's not here,
she's
dead,
you're making
the girl nervous,

stop it!

and i look out of
the window, of the
moving bus,
at white clouds
in a blue sky

trying hard
not to cry.


18/05/07
********

the image is a pencil sketch on art paper, then digitally enhanced.